


It's about time!

by Ems_Ems



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, They fuck but it's basically only a hint, Vetinari loses a bet, Vimes loses his pants, bloody wizards, ferocious alchemists, let's try this again shall we
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 21:11:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19980565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ems_Ems/pseuds/Ems_Ems
Summary: Vimes had always been a rational man under layers of cynicism, but Vetinari managed to do what years of greasy food slowing his bloodstream hadn't done: make him pop a vein."Are you- were you even listening when I was explaining all that stuff about the bloody academicals messing with the bloody timeline of our dimension? There are riots out there! At least ten different High Priests had to revise their entire religions according to the new chronological order of historical events. It’s a mess!"





	It's about time!

**Author's Note:**

> I previously posted this work earlier today but it felt a little bit off so I had to revise it. Plot-wise, it's still a disaster, but I tried and that's what matters.
> 
> If you find mistakes please feel free to point them out in the comments! I don't have a beta and English is not my native language so please excuse my awful grammar. 
> 
> I just wanted to write something about those two because I love them so fucking much.
> 
> When's this set? I don't really have an answer for that. Let's say at all times in every possible dimension.

The Patrician not so much stood, as leaned on the window, his usual spot for contemplation and just general guest intimidation of the tyrannical sort: a familiar scenario that offered nothing new to the observer. And yet, no witty remark or poignant comparison between the city and an ebullient pot of vile creatures had left the Patrician's lips in the last few minutes. The reason was to be found in the arduous task the Patrician was scrupulously carrying to its completion, which consisted in trying not to suffocate on calloused digits pressed down his throat while their grunting owner was railing him against the windowsill. 

It had indeed started off as their usual Thriday meeting [1], with Vetinari sitting at his desk leafing through a neat pile of paperwork while Vimes grumbled into his cigar about 'those damn wizards'. It had later occured to the Commander of the Watch that Vetinari was not at all following his reasoning, his attention being fully drawn to a rather thin letter bearing the wax seal of Uberwald. As the clock striked about-nine-ish o'clock ( for the fourth time that Thriday), Vimes lost his patience and bluntly asked the Patrician what, pray, was the content of the letter he'd been staring at for the past hour or so. 

"Her last move", Vetinari answered, rising at his full height ( which was taller than the average ankh-morporkian, and average to the tallest genuan) and leaving the paper-stacked shores of his desk for the deep sea of darkness that reigned in the Oblong Office in a rainy night such as that one.

"Her what?"

"The game is over" commented Vetinari, climbing the step that led to the window facing south. He went still for a moment, before turning to Vimes once again. 

"Our game of Thud." 

Vimes had always been a rational man under layers of cynicism, but Vetinari managed to do what years of greasy food slowing his bloodstream hadn't done: make him pop a vein.

"Are you- were you even listening when I was explaining all that stuff about the bloody academicals messing with the bloody timeline of our dimension? There are riots out there! At least ten different High Priests had to revise their entire religions according to the new chronological order of historical events. It’s a mess!"

"Now, Vimes, I believe you are overreacting. I am sure Professor Ridcully will find a way to make amends for his students' carelessness in matters they should not concern themselves with."

Vetinari had been tapping his chin with the letter, his mind completely absorbed by it, more specifically by what he was going to find inside it. He had been worrying himself over every possible move the Ruler of Uberwald might think of, in light of the little bet she'd challenged him to accept so as to 'make things more interesting'. Now, Vetinari wasn't a betting man - when it did not involve the certainty of winning - and gladly left the betting to the likes of the current Postmaster, but he had no place to refuse. After all, Lady Margolotta was an old friend and a very persuasive one. Some people might argue that luring men into dangerous situations is in the nature of vampires. That it's what vampires do, be them black-ribboners or, how Vimes once not so gently put, evil bloodsuckers. However, Vetinari had agreed that it was time they raised the stakes, despite them being so high, that Vetinari himself had spent sleepless nights studying the Thud board, coming to terms with the idea that he might, in fact, lose that match. At the end of the day, it had been a good way to test the post office while the clacks were down under new maintenance.

The Patrician sighed and silently walked back to the desk, his robe dragging after him like a trail of black ink left by a pen soaked in the inkstand for too long. 

"Professor Ridcully can't fix his stupid hat at the moment, let alone a breach in the space-time continuum. He was bit by a drunken alchemist when he found them sneaking in the library. You know alchemists, they inhale so many poisonous substances even their saliva is toxic. Doctor Lawn is checking on him. Told me his skin's gotten all shades of green and he's not making any sense."

The Patrician waited until Vimes finished venting before sitting down and steepling his fingers in his own dramatical fashion. It never failed to silence whoever sat across his desk. Except his Excellency the Duke of Ankh, apparently. 

“You see, Vimes, I’m afraid I lost the game.”

“With all due respect, sir, the situation’s getting out of hand and I don’t see the point in sitting here discussing if dwarves won over trolls or viceversa on a board when they’re fighting in the flesh” - Vimes took a break to reconsider his choice of words - “and in the stone... outside this very palace about the stupid battle that, thanks to the wizards, is going to happen tomorrow instead of hundreds of years ago!”

“I understand this might sound like a trivial matter to you, but I can ensure you this might, no, this  _ will _ twist the future more than magic spells combined with alchemy. I was told that such is the impact of feelings on people’s lives.” 

Vimes stopped talking for a second: he thought he’d seen a glimpse of concern flashing through his Lordship’s eyes. He just wished it was about the state of absolute chaos Ankh-Morpork was currently in. 

“It was most childish of me to accept, but I made a bet and I must keep my word.”

Vimes did not like where that conversation was going, because it sounded very much like when his wife had told him she believed Vetinari to be in love with him. The problem was that his wife was always right about these things. Breeding dragons as a lifetime hobby gives you a general idea of repressed sexual desires and above all, pining. Of course, Vetinari was no dragon, though Vimes wouldn’t be surprised if he were to hide scales under his clothes. He did sometimes wonder what he’d find if he hiked up his robes just a little bit over his waist and… oh… OH… 

Vetinari opened a drawer and fished out a paper knife with the hippos of Ankh-Morpork nicely engraved on its blade. That moment felt as if a rebellious teenager had cut the trousers of time and patched them back together to make them more suitable for a rock concert held by trolls. In other words, it felt like they were drifting [2] into another dimension where Vetinari looked almost happy to lose a match of Thud. Maybe it was the wizards, maybe it was his sleep deprived copper brain imagining things. Be as it may, Vimes didn't leave room for overthinking: he jumped up and snatched the letter out of Vetinari’s spindly fingers as the clock chimed. It was half past a quarter. 

“Please don’t” he whispered softly. The cigar fell to the floor, right between his worn out boots. 

“There is the slight possibility that I might have won” Vetinari replied, inching closer. His face was ever so unreadable and yet you could tell he wasn’t about to throw you in the scorpion pit, which was as nice as Vetinari’s expression could get. 

“Y- you ever thought...?” the Commander of the Watch asked, holding the letter to his breastplate. 

“Yes. Countless times, Samuel.”

Vimes had to hide a gasp into a cough that turned into an uncontrollable fit. When he finally found his breath back, he rasped: “Clothes on?”. Vetinari looked him up and down with his usual studied calm.

“Just the helmet.”

“Oh”

“Was I good?”

“Yes. Was I?”

Vimes caught himself nodding. He also caught himself handing back the letter to its rightful owner. He closed his eyes and held his breath as the paper knife cut through the paper and probably the fabric of time. Someone was going to have to sew it back together. Too bad Vimes let his wife mend everything, from his socks to his most hated ceremonial uniform. He would have probably made a mess if he tried. Thankfully, Sybil was extremely good at it, and also weirdly supportive when it came to her dear Havelock finally getting in her husband’s pants instead of on his nerves.

“Oh, my.”

Eyes squeezed shut, Vimes heard Vetinari's voice steer towards a silkier tone.

“Seems like I have lost.”

  
  
  
  


[1]

There being no longer a distinction between a Thursday and a Friday after the time-jumbling accident at Unseen University - which inevitably led to said meeting between the Patrician and the Commander of the Watch - one has to make do with obnoxious temporal coordinates such as 'Mondnesday', 'Tuenday' and 'That day Ridcully's students and alchemists hit it off at the pub and thought it a good idea to mess with time after a few bottles of fine Bearhugger's'.

[2]

more like canoeing down the fast and impetuous waters of time with all the nauseous feelings one might get from being jostled around a rocking boat


End file.
